Monday’s Grief

Tim stared at his paper. There was no percentage, no letter grade, only three words.

Come see me

This was it good. His classmates had all received their papers back. The girl next to him, Stacy, had even whooped when Doctor Morgan handed it to her. Why was it that Tim was the only student that looked miserable?

Class was, officially speaking, over. Students were beginning to file out, while some stragglers hung back, chatting with their friend. The professor has warned him that his future in the class was uncertain. She had said just the week prior that his grades weren’t good enough for him to be able to continue without improvement. He had been certain that his paper would be that improvement.

Mustering what courage he had, Tim stood and approached the front of the classroom where Doctor Morgan was erasing the whiteboard.

“Excuse me,” he said meekly, clutching his paper, “you wanted to see me?”

She paused, then put the eraser down and slowly turned.

“Tim,” she said, “yes, I did. It’s about your future in my class.”

“Please,” Tim begged, “give me another chance. I promise that I’ll work twice as hard.”

Doctor Morgan shut her eyes at Tim’s words, staggering backward into the whiteboard, as if struck. She shivered, then opened her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Tim,” she said in a laboured voice, “but your grades are nowhere near where they need to be to pass my class.”

“You need to let me stay,” he said, “I love your class. It’s the best thing on campus.”

Again her eyes closed. This time beads of sweat appeared on her forehead.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “No, Tim. It’s not possible.”

“You have to make an exception, just this once!” He begged.

Steadying herself on the table that held her notes, Doctor Morgan’s breathing began to come on grunts, as if she was fighting with something. Sweat was now pouring out of her pores. Her hands were balled into fists.

She opened her eyes and stood up straight.

“No,” she said, locking eyes with Tim, “and I will hear no more of it from you. You have consistently underperformed in my class, and do not deserve to be wasting a seat that could belong to someone who can keep up.”

She stepped forward.

“I have already let administration know what you have been removed from my class list. This paper,” she flicked the paper in Tim’s hands, “was a miserable waste of a tree. Not only did you not understand the assignment, you didn’t even seem to understand what class you were writing for. Now,” she turned and started collecting her notes, “I do not appreciate you attempting to bully me into letting you stay. I know you have a reputation as one who gets his way, but that will not happen in my classroom. Gather your things, pick up your purse, and go.”

Doctor Morgan picked up the pile of papers she had stacked and put them into her open briefcase. Then she slammed it shut, clicking the two locks shut. Picking up the case, not wanting to engage with Tim any further, she took one step toward the door.

And froze.